Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
I whip around, dust swirling. “What if I don’t want it taken off my hands?” The words burst out, loud and jagged, and I’m shocked by my own heat, but I don’t back down. My chest heaves, and my hands ball into angry fists.
Those incredible gray eyes narrow with incredulity. “You want to keep this monstrosity?” It’s a question, but it sounds more like an accusation.
“For the love of God, and for the last time. Yes, I do. I want to keep this monstrosity,” I shoot back, my voice cracking with defiance and impatience.
He inhales deeply, and I can tell he’s wrestling his temper. A muscle in his jaw ticks with exasperation. “Why? Look at this place. It’s been neglected for too long, and it’s falling apart. It’s actually unsafe. You can’t live here. It’s inhabitable as it is, and you have to admit even to yourself that it would be a battle, a nightmare to try and make anything of this ruin. It’s almost better to tear it all down and start from scratch. And I suspect you don’t have the means to do that. I’m a reasonable man. What would it take for you to let it go… for your peace of mind?”
“What I want for my peace of mind, respectfully,” I snap, “is for you to get out of my property.” Then the truth spills out, bitter and raw. “This cabinet just literally fell on me with no help forthcoming from you, and since I don’t expect anything going forward, please, just go away.” I turn back to the mess, yanking at a warped drawer, pretending he’s already gone.
I hear his expensive boots shift, a slow scrape, then the creak of the floor as he heads out. He’s leaving—good. But my head’s spinning, his arrogant face burned into it—tall, dark, those eyes like a raging ocean. I suppose he is the British version of a cowboy, all leather and swagger? Intrigued despite myself, I lurch toward the window, nearly tripping over a pile of moldy books. My fingers snag the yellowed, dusty curtain. I wince at the gritty stiffness of the material. It’s obviously never been washed in decades. Good thing I don’t have a phobia of germs because there must be zillions of pathogens on this thing. I edge the microorganisms caked material aside, just in time to see him swing onto a horse. A freaking humongous horse. I almost have to rub my eyes clean to be sure of what I’m actually seeing.
He gallops off, a blur of muscle and dramatic movement. It’s so unreal I almost laugh—almost. But I’m too damn tired, too overwhelmed, too overstimulated by my shit show of a day. My knees buckle, and I collapse into what looks like a sofa, and ancient junk presses against me on all sides. My throne of bedlam.
“I should’ve just stayed in my studio in Chicago,” I mutter. “At least there I could see the freaking floor.”
Chapter
Six
HUGH
Completely deluded. This is the only way she can be described. I’ve never come across anything like it. I saw it in her eyes. The unshakeable belief that she can put that property right simply by tinkering around with it. My blood’s boiling, and my chest is tight with fury. ‘No,’ she’d said, like it’s that simple, like she can just reject my offer and preserve that rotting heap she calls a cottage.
I dig my heels in hard, and my horse responds, hooves slamming the dirt, tearing across the field faster than I’ve ridden in years. Wind lashes at my face, cool and biting, streaking through my hair as I push my horse to what I know he is capable of. With his gallop and a thunder in my ears, I don’t stop, not for a long damn time. I let the rage burn itself out.
By the time I finally rein in, my shirt’s damp with sweat and sticking to my back, and the horse’s flanks heave under me. I’m miles out now, the manor a speck in the distance, and I realize— I’m too furious. Why am I this angry? She’s just some stubborn Yank; there’s no reason to let her get under my skin like this. The sun dips lower, golden streaks breaking through the clouds, painting the fields in a glow that usually calms me. Not today.
I turn my horse around, take him at a slower pace, and let the rhythm of his hooves steady my pulse.
No one’s riled me up this quick or this bad, ever. I don’t want to admit it, don’t want to give her the credit even in my head, but it’s because she’s… unusual. Beautiful, yes, but not in a polished, predictable way—more like a wildfire, dangerous and raw, the kind that gets your blood boiling whether you want it to or not. The big blue eyes, the tangled strawberry blonde halo, and that sharp little “fuck” she let slip. None of it has got anything to do with the land, and that knowledge pisses me off more. I shove the irritation down and focus on the plan.